


Wait

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Furiosa on top, POV Capable, POV Max, Post-Movie(s), Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 14:05:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11163393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: Tension rises at a Citadel trade negotiation. Furiosa intervenes, Max responds.Fill for thesmutty_arts art prompt challenge, inspired by  byyoukaiyume's series"Don't talk to the imperator and her pitbull ever again".This story uses thesecondandthirdimages in the series.





	Wait

It’s gone wrong. 

Capable knows exactly when it happened, but not how to put it right. They’re meeting ambassadors from the Roga, a community from out beyond the wall of mountains. Max has passed through a couple of times, enough to know they survive by trade and a little mining: saltpetre, which makes them a potential backup to Bullet Farm ammunition. Better still, they’re on a trade route, an important source of seeds and information. They’re from beyond the territory established by Joe, so this deal is both a risk and an opportunity. They have no history with these people, making the cues harder to read.

It’s clear that they like performance. The Roga cars remind Capable of Buzzard vehicles – not quite so spiked, but they’re designed to catch the eye in the same way. They’ve refused to visit the Citadel itself, muttering about its stone walls and secrecy. As a compromise, both sides have erected tents, just inside Citadel territory. It’s the closest they’ll get to neutral space, but it’s also proved a chance to show off, with elaborate decoration on both sides. The visitors go in for spikes, metal and horn. The Citadel has painted vines, with tassels edging its tents.

Seven hundred days after the revolution, Capable has had hard, fast training in treaties and diplomacy. She’s good at it, knowing how to play it, how to hit the right notes and build relationships underneath. This time, she’s blown it.

She went too fast, and they’ve read it as weakness. Her own apparent softness can help her build bridges, but not unless she can back it up. The Roga know the Citadel mostly by reputation, not from experience; she’s taken too much for granted. She can feel them dismissing her, eyeing them up for easy pickings. They’ll learn soon enough if they try anything – there’s a reason the Citadel entourage includes Max and Furiosa, to say nothing of Toast and her revheads – but she doesn’t want it to come to that.

Capable lets some sternness back into her voice, standing up from her bench, a car seat that they’ve brought to the meeting tent. She’s found that moving around can play well, that shifting the physicality can change the mood of a whole meeting. This time, their chief visitor looks offended. Capable can feel the tension rising, has to work to control her own fear. To her surprise, Furiosa is suddenly at her elbow, stepping forward from her place in the bodyguard, heading for the car seat. 

She doesn’t hurry, moving almost lazily, letting her legs sprawl wide as she sits down. Once she’s settled, she crosses her legs, one leather-clad thigh pressed against the other, her metal arm reaching along the back of the seat. She’s deliberately taking up space, using her height, her reach, the weight of her body. The visitors are staring. Everyone is staring. The tented room falls entirely silent, so quiet that Capable can hear the faint flap of canvas, the only trace of a desert breeze.

This isn’t the Furiosa she’s got to know since the fury road, the more open woman who emerged over those three days. It’s not quite the imperator of the past, either. Her authority then was clear but quiet: she’d held herself in, cool and efficient, without looking for trouble. This one has trouble all over her, rising from her like the smell of sweat from heated skin. Every movement is slow and heavy and dangerous. It’s exactly the right touch of theatre for this audience. The tension grows to meet her, then holds. 

“We could insist,” the spiked negotiator says, making it a threat. At that, Max steps in behind Furiosa, leaning down to her shoulder.

He’s looming over her, but his aggression is directed at the Roga. If Furiosa’s behaviour is unfamiliar, Max’s isn’t, or not exactly. Capable finds herself remembering the feral of that first day, growling and snapping from behind his muzzle. This time, he’s not defensive: he’s holding himself ready, to fight or to shield her. They’re both staring at the negotiator, who is showing signs of nervousness. Capable has seen Max battle his way through an armada to get to Furiosa, but she’d never thought of him as her attack dog. 

“I don’t think you’re going to do that.” Furiosa holds the ambassador’s gaze as she lifts her hand to Max’s face, seeming to know exactly where he is by instinct. The muscles of her arm stand out as she combs her fingers through his hair. The atmosphere in the tent shifts again, waves of sex and power rolling off the pair of them.

It’s not that Capable doesn’t know Max is Furiosa’s lover – the whole Citadel knows that, was probably assuming before it was true. It’s still rare for them to kiss or snuggle in public, but she’s seen how soft they can be around each other. This isn’t that. They’re barely touching, but it’s the most blatant thing she’s ever seen, a barefaced display of complicity and danger. 

Capable can’t afford to let her own cheeks flush at it. She looks at the negotiator.

“The explosives,” she continues, her voice firm. He turns to her in relief. The deal is back on.

***

Max leaves the tent in Furiosa’s wake. It’s hard for her to switch off the power she’s summoned; she tamps it down but it’s there, simmering under the surface. Or maybe he just thinks that because he’s still responding to it. Walking after her, he finds his eyes following the sway of her waist, the line of her neck.

Power posing is common currency in the wasteland, but not from her. Max has seen too many warlords to care about swagger; he’s not used to reacting like this. What she just did was purposeful display, as ruthlessly efficient as the way she fights, without bluster or self-indulgence. His head is ringing with it, his cock twitching.

They’re parked side by side, in the shadow of the supply tent, his interceptor next to the truck she’s brought. The Citadel team won’t debrief until they’re safely home, but there are supplies to be packed and checked before they go, the temporary camp to be packed up. Max lifts the Roga sample box into the back of the truck, trying to keep his focus. It’s packed in a plastic crate, of a kind that is both common and rare: there were so many of them, but most have softened and rotted into uselessness. This one seems sturdy enough.

When he turns back for the next box, he meets her eyes, green against the smear of grease she’s wearing against the sun. She’d only done her eyes when they set out, but in the heat and roughness of the day it’s smudged onto her cheek, up to her forehead. She looks the way she did when he first saw her, authority still radiating from her. Max drops.

He’d be down on his knees in the sand but she grabs him first, her steel hand easing him onto the bonnet of his car. He lets her move him, reaching for her hips as she steps into his space. A groan escapes him as she stands astride his thigh, her flesh hand back in his hair. His face is pressed to her belts, the sharp edge of a buckle digging into his cheek. She is flexible steel, bright and powerful under her armour.

Amid the bustle of the camp, he hears an unexpected sound behind them: a cautious step, something different from the busy, noisy activity elsewhere. It’s enough to make him look round with a growl, his hands tightening on her hips. 

One of the revheads is there, carrying another sample box, looking as if he wants the desert to swallow him up. 

“I’ll take that,” Furiosa says, cool and unhurried, stepping away from Max to reach for the box. 

The revhead scurries away in relief, and the moment passes: it’s too exposed, there’s too much to do. He watches as Furiosa swings herself easily into the cab of her truck, waits for Capable and the others to join her. It’s a moment before Max realises he should be getting into his own car.

The Citadel cars drive off with some ceremony, falling into formation. They don’t rev their engines; everything is smooth and efficient. All the way back, he thinks about fucking her, about getting on his knees with his face between her legs, about her hand in his hair.

Sometimes, with her, he feels stripped down to instinct and need, his feral side exposed. This first time it had happened, he was terrified. He’d been hoping he was past that, so scared of falling back into that state of mind that he couldn’t bear to look at it. He’d clung on as long as he could – not long – before taking off into the desert again, panicked by his own responses. He’s starting to realise he can admit it’s there, that if he doesn’t deny it he might be able to control it. Or let her control it. 

He’s found that his possessiveness can be soothed by her, by letting himself feel that he’s hers. It quietens the need by channelling it. Mostly, it’s in check, but now that she’s switched it on he doesn’t want to switch it off. He just wants.

When they get back, the noise and confusion of the Citadel swirls past him. There isn’t time to go back to her room: they need to report to the Council, to check the details of the new agreement, to share information while it’s fresh in their minds. These demands take the edge off, a little, give him something else to hold onto. It’s more than an hour before he and Furiosa can leave.

She starts unbuckling her arm before they’re through the door of her room, hanging it up and heading straight for the washstand. Grabbing the cloth, she scrubs at her face, getting the grease off and dunking her head in the basin before stripping off the rest of her clothes. By the time Max has made sure the door is barred behind them, she’s standing naked, shaking the tension out of her shoulders.

He gets to see her bare, how she is when she doesn’t have to guard herself. She must know he’s watching, but it’s so different from the performance she’d put on in the negotiating tent. He remembers the idle way her fingers had combed through his hair.

“Haven’t – haven’t seen you like that. Doing that,” he says. “What you did with the Roga.” His voice is hoarse, words harder than usual. She turns to him, soft and smiling, just a little teasing.

“Did you like it?” 

“…yeah.” Because he can hardly pretend otherwise, and what has he got to lose?

Furiosa changes her stance. She’s doing it again, letting her power show. Naked as she is, barefoot and without her arm, it’s even more overwhelming than it had been in the tent. 

It’s as if the air between them changes, altered by her sheer certainty. He wants to give her everything she wants, wants her to push him on his back and ride him. 

She picks up a clean cloth and walks towards him, slow and easy. 

“I want you clean,” she says, nudging him down onto the bench so she can wipe his face. “Want you safe.” She washes his hands, too, careful and thorough. Max is breathing hard, almost whining at being made to wait. He stares at a drop of water on her throat, watching it slide over her collarbone, down to her breast. She drops the cloth and climbs into his lap, bare skin against his layers of cloth and metal and leather. 

Vulnerability has always been its own kind of power, with her. He was a feral scav when she swept him up in her escape, remaking him as someone trustworthy just by trusting him. She settles astride him, her knees on the bench, and moves his hand between her legs.

“No. Hold still,” she murmurs, when he starts to curl his fingers. She arranges his hand and rocks herself against it, not letting him move. He does as she asks, but can’t keep in a growl at the feel of her, wet and hot against his hand. He’s so hard, aching with it, trapped inside his clothes when she's right there and naked. She smiles and rocks harder, gives a little wriggle when he growls again. She moves her own hand away, trusting him to keep his still, and strokes his face, tilting up his chin.

“I like seeing you like this.” Her voice is silky, right in his ear. “Big and feral and holding yourself so still.” Max shivers, because it’s the first time they’ve used that word, the first time she’s said it sexually. She gives a little twitch in response, pushing harder against his hand.

“Now,” she says. “Take me to bed.” Max moans. She leans in, nips at his ear. “I want you to fuck me.” 

He slides his arms around her and stands up, ready to carry her. He’s holding her so tight that he thinks the corners and fastenings of his jacket must be digging into her. If so, she doesn’t mind: she wraps herself tighter around him, her body pressed hard against his. 

When he puts her down on the bed, she’s already reaching for his fastenings, opening her legs for him. Scrambling onto her, trying to push his leathers down at the same time, he lands with his face against her chest, mouthing his way up her as he gets into position. She’s tugging at him, pulling him onto her.

When he slides into her, he can feel her muscles clench around his heated, sensitive skin. She wraps her arms around him, hips grinding up to meet him. Max is growling again, sucking kisses into her shoulders and throat as they fall into a rhythm, fast and urgent and just right. Everything feels good: he can lose himself in her, pour himself into her, all the hours of tension giving way to shared movement and feeling. Her hand is back in his hair, not to stop him but to urge him on. 

He reaches for her clit, stroking fast, but still comes before she does, gasping, keeping his hips rocking until she lets go. He loves the sounds she makes, loves knowing just how to touch her. She makes a satisfied little purr after she comes, then tugs at his clothes.

“Get this off.” He struggles out of his heavy jacket, pushes his leathers further down. They’re wrapped in a messy tangle, Furiosa sprawled out with Max curled over her. The storm of her has died down: she looks bright and mercurial again, at ease. He holds her tighter, arms around all the things she is. 

“Did you like it?” She strokes his neck, snuggling closer. “Like that?”

“S’you,” Max says, not knowing how to say what he means. “Like you best.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
